


Finish Your Collapse and Stay for Breakfast

by autoschediastic



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-29
Updated: 2011-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:06:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam hauls him in closer, gets down and dirty and oh sweet fucking Jesus, now Tommy is hard for real. This is so fucking awkward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finish Your Collapse and Stay for Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sulwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulwen/gifts).



The television's down low, Sasha and Taylor caught in its muted glow on the floor, Cam and Terrance squished together in a chair with LP flaked out in front of it. Neil's poking around in the back of the bus, but Tommy lost track of everybody else somewhere between this episode of _True Blood_ and the last, except for Adam, who's stretched out on the couch with Tommy's head in his lap. His fingers in Tommy's hair have gone still.

"Man," Tommy says quietly, not wanting to disturb the others. Adam's gaze cuts his way. "You must be beat."

Adam works up a sliver of a smile. "Kinda. Too wired to sleep though."

"You sure?" Tommy gives Adam's crotch a pointed look. "Normally you're jabbing me in the back of the skull by now."

"Oh come on," Adam says, jostling Tommy away from his cock. "It doesn't happen every time."

"Does," Sasha says, eyes glued to the screen where Sookie's running around in a rain-soaked _Merlotte's_ tee. Tommy's got to admit, it's pretty fucking spectacular.

"S'true," Tommy says. When Adam gives him a steady, disbelieving glare, he clambers up, snuggles in with a leg flung over Adam's lap, arms looped around Adam's neck. "Wood in twenty seconds, tops."

"I'm not that fucking easy," Adam grumbles.

Tommy wriggles around a bit, grinning.

"And that's _cheating_ ," Adam says, shoving at Tommy's knee.

Ducking Tommy's foot, Taylor says, "Ow, hey, watch it," flapping a hand randomly in their direction, most of his attention still on the show.

"See what you did," Adam says. Manhandling Tommy around, he settles back against the couch's arm, one leg up on the cushions and the other planted on the floor between Sasha and Taylor, Tommy cuddled against his chest. "Now behave."

"Yessir," Tommy says, melting happily into Adam's heat. He fucking loves cuddling. Maybe he's clingy or whatever, but there's nothing better than the comfort of another person pressed close. Ten fucking times better than a blanket for keeping warm. Adam runs hot most of the time, glowing away like a miniature sun, and he's big, built solid with a good bit of muscle packed onto his broad frame, whole worlds away from Tommy's own scrawny ass, and popping a couple inappropriate boners or not, he's so not afraid to get cosy. Adam Lambert, rockstar motherfucker, is the best goddamn cuddler out there.

A few minutes later, when Tommy clues in on the familiar solid nudge low against his belly, he says, "Aw yeah, there it is."

"You made it a point of pride," Cam says, her arm slung around Terrance's shoulders. "He _had_ to get one."

"As if," Tommy says, trying to slap a look of haughty primness on over his grin. "Totally not my fault."

"It is so your fault," Adam says, vengefully smushing Tommy's face into his chest. "And I thought I told you to behave."

Muffled, Tommy says, "M'behavin'." Planting a hand on Adam's shoulder, he makes a token attempt at shoving free, sort of disappointed when Adam lets him up without a fight. "Pussy," he accuses, and settles back down, chilled fingers tucked under Adam's side and cheek pillowed back on Adam's chest. Adam's fingers push through his hair again, gentle and strong, and Tommy misses the whole rest of the show, out like a light.

*

It's dark and quiet when Tommy wakes. Blinking sleepily, he tries to roll over, figuring out when he doesn't get far that he's still on the couch pretty much draped over Adam, Adam's arm heavy on his waist. Everybody else has gone to bed like smart, sensible adults.

"Hey," Tommy says, hushed. "Hey, big guy."

Adam makes a disgruntled I'm-fucking-sleeping noise, and doesn't move.

Sizing up the situation, Tommy decides it's not worth the effort to figure out how to get up without jamming an elbow into Adam's sternum or a knee into his crotch. And like, speaking of Adam's crotch, that's way more than a little sleep chub he's got going on down there. Tommy's thigh is pressed right up against it, so he knows. That is Adam's cock, and Adam's cock is hard.

Tommy's gotten up close and personal with boners not his own before. Not _friendly_ with them, but bumped into them a couple times wrestling with bandmates or fucking around grabbing junk like threats. Never with any kind of intent to _do_ something with it, aside from make somebody scream like a little girl.

He's pretty sure if he grabbed Adam's junk, screaming would not be what Adam did.

Well, maybe a startled yelp. That shit would be unexpected.

So this is kinda weird, trapped in the dark on top of Adam, thinking about his hard dick. But it's right fucking there. To be fair, it's right fucking there most of the time, since Adam literally has a hard-on for performing. This is totally not the first time Tommy's felt the whole nine yards. On stage, though, his mind's on the show--most of the time--and not Adam grinding it into his thigh or hip or ass. And when he cajoles his way into Adam's bed, because Adam has an actual fucking bed, not a prison bunk nailed to the wall, and he wakes up sharing space with Adam's morning wood, he's usually more concerned about his own.

All of which isn't really helping Tommy figure out what, if anything, he's going to do about Adam's really big dick.

Rubbing his thigh against it with the thin excuse of getting comfy isn't the best idea he's ever had. Too late, though. Adam barely twitches anyway. It's sorta disappointing. So much so, Tommy's giving serious consideration to trying that shit again. He could probably get away with it. Except now he's wondering why he wants to get away with it, and like, never-fucking-mind that, why he wants to play around with Adam's cock at all.

"Dude, c'mon," Tommy says, and pokes Adam in the gut. "Wake up, man. Time for bed."

Groaning, Adam bats sleepily at Tommy's hand. "M'fine here. Comfy."

"Are not," Tommy says, wriggling around, deliberately jabbing Adam with every bony angle he's got. "You're gonna wake up with a crick in your neck, and bitch me out all day for letting you sleep on the couch again, and then Neil's gonna bitch me out for you bitching me out, so get your lazy ass up."

"Oh my god," Adam gasps, sitting bolt upright, close to dumping Tommy flat on the floor. "I'm up, fuck, I'm up, you little shit, ow."

 _You are so fucking up_ , Tommy thinks, and decides he's gonna let it slide this time, mostly because he's sort of freaked himself out thinking about Adam's cock, and also because now he's in Adam's fucking lap. Like seriously in his lap, knees splayed wide on either side of Adam's hips with Adam's hands on his back and his on Adam's shoulders, and wow, what the fucking fuck.

Oblivious, Adam scoots him off the couch. Wincing through a yawn, Adam asks, "Bed?"

Tommy's usual answer here is fuck yes, he wants in Adam's bed. Before Adam catches on that he's being weird, he dutifully says, "Bed," and shuffles along behind Adam through the maze of the bus wondering what the hell he's doing.

With a few weeks on the road under their belts, they've got a routine down pat. Tommy strips down to shorts and tee, and clambers into bed while Adam roots around through the dark for a pair of threadbare sleep pants, shucking his shorts and hauling those on instead. Tommy gets the inside because he doesn't have a bladder the size of a split pea, and because Adam has all these rules for his bed, like he prefers lying on his left side while going to sleep, so if Tommy wants cuddles he has to start out on his left, too, since Adam complains about Tommy breathing in his face otherwise, and even though Tommy's the type that likes to start sprawled out on his back and ends up on his belly by morning. It's this big whole complicated thing. Tommy's got whole bucketloads of sympathy for Adam's past and future boyfriends. The guy is fucking high-maintenance.

Tommy worms his chilled toes between Adam's calves.

"Sleepin' in your own bed tomorrow," Adam grunts into Tommy's hair.

"Yeah, yeah," Tommy says. Adam's foot twitches. Tommy is seriously envious of his ability to conk out anywhere, anytime, in about three seconds flat. "'Night, rockstar."

"'Night, baby," mumbles Adam, and then he's gone.

A good twenty minutes later, Tommy's still awake, stuck thinking about Adam's junk. He seriously wishes he could let it go. It's not like he wants to get all up on it or something.

He really, really doesn't.

*

A few nights later finds Tommy in some gay club in Denver plastered to Adam's side, and plain all-around plastered. Sometimes the gay boys are assholes that don't like Tommy all up in their business, as if showing up on Adam's arm in his stage makeup isn't enough cred once they figure out which team he's batting for, and sometimes, like this bunch, they're all as really fucking cool as Adam's friends back home, buying him drinks and ruffling his hair and talking smack about his technique when he hits on a hot chick in six-inch platform heels and she shoots him down like a kamikaze bomber.

"She thinks you were cheating on your man," one of them singsongs, leaning on the back of the cushy chair Tommy's sharing with another guy who's like, seven and a half feet tall.

Laughing, shouting to be heard over the music's heavy thud, Tommy asks, "My what?"

"Your man!" Adam crows, weaving in from the dance floor with a cute little twink in tow, this look on the twink's face like he just got fucked out there and he really, really liked it.

"My what!" Tommy yells back, grinning like an idiot.

Adam grabs onto his chin, yanks him halfway up out of the chair and gets all up in his face. There's a sheen of sweat at Adam's hairline, clumping his hair together in dark chunks, and his eyes are glittering brighter than the sparkle of his makeup. "Your _man_ ," he purrs, sliding his hand back to fist Tommy's hair.

Tommy swallows hard. "I ain't got no man," he says, voice cracking like he's fucking thirteen again.

A couple long oohs go up. Adam shoves Tommy back in the chair, shaking his head ruefully, saying, "My baby's _so slow_ ," to the jailbait that sidles on up beside him. "Tell him to come dance with me."

"Dance with me," jailbait says, poking his lips out in what he probably thinks is a sexy pout.

"Maybe next time, sweetheart," Adam says, and like he really means it, too. "I need a drink. Bitches, who stole my drink!"

The total backstabbing douche that Tommy gave up half his seat for points a finger straight at him.

The gleam in Adam's eyes turns to pure evil. "So that's the way it is," he says, and next thing Tommy knows, Adam's got hold of his wrists, hauling him stumbling to his feet. Right in his ear, Adam says, "If I buy you a drink, you owe me a dance."

"Didn't buy it!" Tommy shouts through the snared-rabbit panic racing through his chest, still laughing sorta, like the complete drunken moron he is. "Adam, Adam, no, I don't wanna dance!"

But Adam's not listening, dragging him through the crowd that closes like water behind them, and then Adam is a hot line pressed all along his back, hands on his hips guiding him into a slow dirty grind that only vaguely goes with the rhythm of pounding up through the floor.

And oh shit, Adam's hard.

But okay. It's nothing personal. An ass is an ass is an ass, and even if Tommy's is flatter than central Iowa, it's still something to rub up against. Adam's boner is probably for that twink he was out here with five minutes ago, anyway.

"Loosen up," Adam demands, giving Tommy's thigh a hard slap.

"Ow, Jesus," Tommy grunts, and figures what the fuck. He's drunk, Adam's drunk, everybody's really fucking drunk. He reaches up over his shoulder to grab onto Adam's arm and goes about as loose and boneless as he's gonna get while he's got Adam's giant fucking dick riding his ass, letting Adam move him along to the music. The booze buzzing through his veins makes it easier than it maybe should be. He's not like, seriously turned on or anything, but Adam's breath hot on his neck feels good, and Adam's hands are running up his chest, cotton dragging over his nipples, and he kinda likes that. It's a fucking erogenous zone, alright? Of course he's gonna get a little stiff if somebody starts rubbing at them.

Then the music changes to a more frantic beat, crackling through the air like something alive. Adam whips him around, fucking makes him straddle a thigh with a big, wide hand almost covering his ass, and Tommy's heart catapults up into his throat. He grabs at Adam's back, trying to keep his balance when Adam's got him up on his fucking toes, and Adam hauls him in closer, gets down and dirty and oh sweet fucking Jesus, now Tommy is hard for real.

He maybe groans a little. He's not sure. This is so fucking awkward.

"Another drink?" Adam asks, mouth brushing Tommy's ear.

"Fuck yes," Tommy says, stumbling as Adam swings him around again, leads him through the crowd with a strong arm around his waist, fingers hooked in his belt. He hunches gratefully against the bar when Adam muscles him up against it, pulse pounding in his head and in his cock. A cold beer appears out of thin air in front of him and he snatches it up, knocks two-thirds of it back without coming up for breath.

The back of one hand pressed to Tommy's cheek, Adam asks, "Too warm, baby? Want some air?"

"Nah," Tommy croaks. He wants to get off so fucking bad. "M'fine. Sorry. Hot."

"Stay here," Adam instructs, waiting for Tommy's nod before he disappears back into the press. A tall glass of water shows up beside Tommy's beer, so he grabs that up, downs it. As long as he's got the bar to hold onto, he's alright.

A few minutes later, though, Adam shows up with his coat slung over one arm, says, "Told the guys we were heading out," and starts hustling him along again. The whole thing's a blur, cooler night air welcome on his face, a muffled buzz of voices, and then a car door slams and Adam's giving the cabbie the name of their hotel.

"Dude," Tommy says, "didn't hafta leave."

"It was time," Adam says, reaching across Tommy to lower his window. "That guy was cruising too hard for a hook-up. Wouldn't take a polite no for an answer." He brushes Tommy's hair back from his face, tucks it behind one ear. "Thought he'd get the hint if I took you out on the floor."

"Oh man," Tommy says, barking out a short, surprised laugh. "I totally got used. Awesome."

Adam's smile goes lopsided. "You okay?"

"Groovy cool," Tommy says, just to make him smile harder. "Yeah, I'm good. And like, desperate horndog aside, that was pretty fucking fun, right?"

"See?" Adam says happily, flicking a glance out at the street to see where they are. "Told you it'd be fun."

"I'm gonna be so fucking hungover tomorrow."

"Stay in bed all day if you want," Adam says, lowering his own window to get a cross breeze going. "We're not on 'til nine."

Adam's so fucking good sometimes, Tommy wants to like, hug the shit out of him. He settles for listing against Adam's side and pawing at his belly a little in what was supposed to be a couple good-boy pats, but Tommy really is fucking soused, coordination shot all to hell.

"I'm not carrying your ass to bed," Adam warns, rubbing comfortingly at his shoulder.

"You so totally will," Tommy says, and Adam keeps an arm around him all through the hotel and up the elevator into his room, letting go only once Tommy plants his face into the pillows.

There's a soft clink of a glass set down on the nightstand. "Sleep good, baby," Adam says.

Tommy gives him a thumbs up, and then passes the hell out.

*

Consciousness comes slinking around the corner like a psycho with a butcher knife. Something about the weight of the light behind thick hotel curtains tells Tommy it's that hazy dark time when it's both too late and too early. He's wide fucking awake, though, heart rattling in his chest and his breaths shallow, stilted, and for a short panicked eternity, he doesn't know why.

Why turns out to be Adam's ass, and Tommy riding the fuck out of it.

Choking on air, Tommy freezes. Adam's stretched out belly-down on the bed beside him, turned partway onto his side, and Tommy's got a leg thrown over his and an arm around his chest, holding on, and Tommy's fucking _dick_ is so up in Adam's space there's no fucking space left. Tommy would like to know where the fucking fuck his pants are. He's still got his shorts on, thank fuck, and he doesn't think Adam's in the buff over there. Like having some clothes on makes this less than a total fucking disaster. Jesus.

Very, very carefully, Tommy starts to slide away. The second he moves, though, Adam makes this quiet snuffling sound and he freezes again, terrified Adam's going to wake up to find his fucking bassist trying to molest him in his sleep. And like not _trying_ even, more like being incredibly fucking successful.

Theoretically, Tommy is totally aware, and has been for awhile, that Adam has a spectacular ass. He's not blind, deaf, dumb or dead, and wrap Adam up in whatever--denim, leather, fucking latex--he looks hot all the way around, coming or going. And fuck it, just fucking _fuck_ it, his ass feels as good as it looks. A little soft, a little firm, meat and muscle to grab onto, high and rounded and perky and pert and the kind of butt made to really sink your teeth into.

Tommy needs to get his junk off Adam's ass.

Then Adam shifts. This tiny, minuscule rock of his hips up and back that shakes Tommy's whole world straight off its axis. It shouldn't be _that_ good. He's not a fucking teenager anymore, rubbing off on anyone or anything that stays still long enough for him to get on up. But Adam does it again, sleepy and slow kinda like he's caught up in a dream, getting a little friendly with the mattress, and he ends up getting all friendly with Tommy's dick at the same time. Tommy's dick is a-okay with this, wants to hang out a little more, get to know him, fucking move in.

"Jesus," Tommy whispers, the room spinning like he's smack in the middle of a stellar drunk.

Adam makes a soft sound low in his throat, lazy and dark. There's a rasp of bare skin on cotton as he drags his knee up, settles more firmly against the mattress, and then he goes still and quiet again, his breaths slow and even, as Tommy's pulse thunders in his skull.

Tommy doesn't think about what he does next before he just goes and fucking does it. If he thinks about it, he won't do it, and if he doesn't do it, he's pretty fucking sure he's going to die. Like if he spares one second, a fraction of a second, on thought, or wastes it on not grinding his cock into Adam's seriously fucking amazing body, he doesn't even fucking _know_ , alright, he honestly doesn't fucking know. He's aching, aching so bad his goddamn toenails hurt. Pure neon-electric bliss shoots up his spine when he gives in, fucking ninja-humps Adam's ass like a total creeper. And once he's started, once he's really doing it in this crazy, insane way with short, stilted rolls of his hips like being all stealthy about it is going to keep Adam from noticing somebody is _humping his motherfucking ass_ , he kinda hopes Adam does wake up and punch him in the teeth, because that's the only way he's ever going to fucking stop.

Snagging the corner of his lip on his teeth, he dares rocking against Adam a little harder. When Adam doesn't instantly snap awake pissed off and confused, Tommy risks edging closer to breathe in the smell of Adam's skin, the lingering scent of that fancy, overpriced cologne he wears and warm sleep-sweat, and something hotter, thicker, when the sheets lift, the smell of him hard, leaking a bit into his shorts, of Tommy's dick rubbing off on him. The smell of another guy's cock, _Adam's cock_ , is one of those things Tommy never in a million fucking years would've thought would nail him as hard as it does, but it slams right into him, no fucking joke, and the lid he's got crammed down on the urge to rut like a desperate horny teenager goes flying right off.

When he comes, lips tucked in over his teeth, biting down hard trying to keep quiet, he knows he makes noise anyway, shocked and hurt-sounding. He lies there panting for a minute, mind completely blank as come soaks into his shorts, and then he stumbles out of bed, into the bathroom on shaking legs, closing the door gently before flicking on the light.

He looks wrecked. His hair's a mess from Adam playing with it on the cab ride back, his eyeliner's smeared in dark shadows around drunken, glassy eyes, there's bright splotches of colour on his cheeks and his lips are so fucking red, like lipstick clumsily wiped away. Groping for some tissues, he tries to sponge come out of his shorts, fuzzy flecks clinging to the black. He sacrifices a facecloth for his dick, scrubs at the bits of tissue stuck to his underwear and wonders with a hot twist of his gut if any seeped through, got on Adam, before he moved.

He's not sure if it's better that Adam slept through the whole thing, or worse. Splashing some water on his face doesn't chase away the weird quivery feeling inside. There's a minibar in the room, though. Cracking that bitch open'll do it.

It takes him a few minutes to get around to opening the door. Quickly flicking off the light, he waits a minute longer for his eyes to readjust to the dark, staring at the bed the whole damn time, the slowly-resolving shadow of Adam spread out on it.

Tommy picks his way carefully across the room. Crouching down in front of the unit, he remembers it needs his keycard to open. Patting blindly at the desk, he finds his jeans slung neatly over the edge, proof positive he wasn't the one who took them off. He fishes out the keycard and swipes it quickly through the reader, breathing a sigh of relief as he grabs onto two clinking bottles of who gives a shit.

Warm alcohol blazes down the back of his throat, triggering a cough he struggles to smother. He slumps back against the desk and takes another hefty hit, draining the first bottle and breaking into the second.

A rustle from the bed brings his gaze swinging up, sends his guts plummeting down. He doesn't know how he knows, he can't see for shit in the near-pitch room, but Adam's awake. Awake, and staring straight at him.

Not saying a goddamn word.

The decision to move isn't Tommy's. His brain is screaming at him to run, run for the motherfucking hills, but his body's headed for the bed. Somewhere in the five and a half feet between him and Adam he loses his tee shirt, the dirty wet cling of his shorts. By the time he clumsily scoots under the sheets again, he's naked, really fucking naked and stinking like jizz, and there's this fiery itch crawling all under his skin. Adam's on his side, a place waiting for Tommy to slot in back to chest with Adam's cock right up against Tommy's ass, hard and burning hot through the single thin barrier of cotton left between them.

Adam drags in a shuddering breath, but doesn't move.

Setting his jaw, Tommy slaps a hand to Adam's hip and grinds back. It's awkward and stilted and fucking weird. That is Adam's goddamn dick he's playing with. He doesn't have the first fucking clue what the hell he's thinking. Letting Adam rub one off on him isn't going to fucking make them _even_ or some shit.

He fucking grinds back again anyway, circling his hips a little like he's trying to make it good, as if he knows a fucking thing about riding cock. He startles when Adam's hand comes down on his, pushes it aside so Adam can grab onto his hip, take over and guide him into another slow roll, fucking showing him how to do it, exactly how Adam likes it. Adam's breaths aren't so slow and even this time around, puffing hot on Tommy's bare shoulder as they really get into it, Adam fucking up against him and Tommy biting on his goddamn lip again because it feels good. Whacked out and fucked up and _good_.

And then Adam starts mouthing at his shoulder, tiny nipping kisses that send sparks zinging all along Tommy's nerves and bursting out in a crazy hitched moan. Adam's fingers dig into his hip, the sharp sting of nails gouging skin getting all fucked up in Tommy's head, making him gasp and push into it instead of shy away. The next thing Tommy knows he's on his fucking belly, desperately shoving pillows aside so he can fucking breathe with Adam rolled over on top of him, bearing him down into the mattress. Adam is big and heavy and suffocating, hands sliding up Tommy's arms to pin his wrists, a knee between Tommy's to spread his legs, make space for Adam to settle in against him, Adam's fucking dick right there, right fucking _there_.

Tommy grits a curse, both hands curling into shaking fists. There's dampness seeping through Adam's shorts, smearing warm on his skin. His heel bumps into Adam's ass as he struggles up onto his elbows, head bowed as Adam bites at his shoulder again, the back of his neck. Whatever rhythm Adam led him in before is long gone, burnt up to ashes in the wake of, "Off, take 'em off," that comes spilling out of Tommy's mouth.

Barely pausing, Adam lifts up, shoves his shorts down with one hand, and then his naked dick is skidding wet and hot along Tommy's crack, sticky head bumping over his hole. A full-on moan wrenches out of Tommy's throat. What the fuck, what the _fucking fuck_ ; it's amazing, terrifying and thrilling and no big fucking goddamn deal. It's not like Adam's dicking him. It's not like Adam's gonna stick it in, not like Adam's ever even fucking _suggested_ wanting to get all up in him.

Except for how Adam's dick sits up and starts begging every time he gets within five fucking feet of the thing.

As Adam's cock slides down, Tommy heaves up, foot banging into Adam's knee as he shoves his legs together, catches Adam's dick snug between his thighs. For a second they're both still, breathing hard in the dark together, and distantly, though layers and layers of hazy lust and alcohol-sodden shock, Tommy's impressed that shit worked.

The sound Adam makes when he fucks down, cockhead bumping slick and soft into Tommy's balls, completely blows Tommy's mind. Rough and growling and _grateful_ , it spirals all the way down Tommy's spine to pool liquid-hot in his gut. Adam makes it again, broken-sounding, and again as he fucks Tommy's thighs, the drag of skin on skin going slippery with sweat, the precome Adam's leaking all over the goddamn place, messing Tommy up like a pre-show to the main event.

Breath clogs in Tommy's throat. In a couple minutes, less, Adam's gonna come on him. He's gonna have Adam's come all over his nuts, his fucking ass, and he wants it, wants to hear Adam lose it, feel it when he shoots.

"Jesus," Tommy chokes, then, "Adam," and Adam groans raggedly, shoves a hand under him to hoist him up, haul him back into the hard smack of Adam's hips going at him, muffled slap of skin on skin. It's filthy and real and fucked up, pure brutal honesty in the rasp of Adam's breath, the shaking of his body against Tommy's, the noise that tears out of him when he comes hard, and in Tommy's eyes flying open, a blind stare into the dark, at the rush of wet heat between his legs.

Tommy drops his face into his hands, concentrating on getting air into his lungs as his pulse pounds through his skull. He can feel Adam's heartbeat thundering against his back, so much like all the times before when they've been pressed together on stage, hot and sweaty and riding the thrill of the show, and so very fucking different. His heart kicks at his ribs as Adam shifts, forehead resting between his shoulder blades.

"It doesn't have to be anything," Adam says, quiet and soft. "We're both drunk."

Tommy viciously digs the heels of both hands into his eyes. That's an out. A blazing red exit sign offered up on a silver platter. They could probably manage it, too. Clean up, move on to another city, play another show. Pretend nothing happened. Pretend nothing ever will.

"Maybe," Tommy says, a harsh croak in the dark, "maybe it fucking should."

Adam drags in another one of those hesitant breaths, says, "Baby," like it hurts.

"Don't even, don't fucking _even_ ," Tommy says, reaching back to roughly grab Adam by the hair.

A fraction of the tension holding Adam tight bleeds away. The kiss he presses to the centre of Tommy's back is light, tentative. Nothing at all like the earlier, desperate kisses Tommy feels like an echo in his bones.

"You're not getting out of this bed." Tommy's hold on Adam's prickly hair tightens. "Clean up with your fucking shorts."

Stroking a hand down Tommy's side to rest against his hip, Adam says, "You're gonna have to let me up for that."

Tommy tugs once on his fistful of hair to make sure Adam's paying attention to how very fucking serious he is about this, and lets go. He stays where he is, shivering in the cooler air that comes spilling in as Adam kneels up, mattress dipping first one way then the other as he takes off his shorts, wipes off his dick.

Tucking his chin down into his chest, Tommy edges up one knee, opening his legs again for Adam to clean away the come smeared on him. He shudders as damp cotton drags over his balls, up between the cheeks of his ass. There's a muffled whump as Adam tosses his shorts onto the floor, then a heavy, deliberate intake of air.

Rolling slowly onto his side, legs tangled around Adam's knees, Tommy says, "Lettin' all the heat out."

"Sorry," Adam says, shuffling over at a weird angle like he intends on keeping all this distance between them. His balance wavers as Tommy scoots over to close it and Adam lands in a heavy, awkward heap halfway on top of him. "Fuck, sorry, I'm-"

"Smoother when you're not drunk, I know," Tommy cuts in.

"I don't do fuck and run," Adam says, even though Tommy can feel the urge thrumming in every line of his body.

"Good. Me either."

Adam confesses, "I'm not drunk."

Tommy sort of is, but really sort of isn't. Sometimes that's the thing about being buzzed out of your skull. From the outside looking in, it's easier to see. Adam isn't going to own up to that fear eating at him, and starting this off with a lie isn't the best idea Tommy's ever had, but holding it in won't do either of them any good. Face pressed to Adam's shoulder, Tommy says, "I don't wanna lose you," muffled and uncertain, and not much of a lie after all.

"Baby," Adam says, breaking through the wall he didn't even know he was building up between them to gather Tommy in for a hug, comfortingly familiar and newly thrilling all at once with so much bare skin involved, like Adam's never really held him when he's done it dozens and dozens of times before.

"Okay," Tommy says, squeezing tighter, then, "Okay," again as he eases up. "You're gonna be here when it's morning?"

"It is morning," Adam says, and Tommy glances up, notices for the first time the deep black shadows are more grey now, lightened by the sunrise pushing at the curtains. The weight of dawn drags heavily at Tommy, conspiring with the alcohol in his blood to pull him into sleep. He hangs on, drawing air shallowly into his lungs, until he hears Adam say, "I'm still here," and then he gives in, sure Adam always will be.


End file.
